


Zero Out of Ten

by Chamomile



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 21:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19326223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chamomile/pseuds/Chamomile
Summary: “What in the seven hells--?!” Sanson gasped, regaining his composure, “Who drops a brick in the barracks?”The two men eyed the tiny thing, but it was Guydelot who mustered the courage to bend down and touch the brick—which, in fact, was not even a brick at all.“It’s…a sketchbook?” Guydelot picked the little book up, eyeing its front and back covers, “Any idea whose it might be?”(Sanson, Guydelot, and a conversation about dedication to one's craft. Takes place some time after "Sweet Dreams are Made of Peace." Mentions of Merlwyb/Kan-E, and a passing mention of an original character or two.)





	Zero Out of Ten

On rainy afternoons, one would find the Twin Adder barracks packed to the brim with recruits of all ranks. It was one of those invisible, unwritten rules—rainy days meant paperwork, filing, reporting, and the like. Neither the Elder Seedseer nor the Serpent Marshal had ever commanded such a thing, but over the years, such became the case on those damp, depressing days.

Among those milling about the barracks’ halls was a pair of infamous young men, an Elezen bard and a Hyuran lancer, the latter’s brow far darker than his companion’s. Sanson Smyth’s cloudy expression seemed to amuse his boon companion, and the former chose not to ignore that fact.

“Guydelot, please,” grumbled the lancer, “You’ve no right to be looking as smug as you are right now.”

“And who’s to be the judge of that, Sanson?” the bard shrugged, “If you ask me, I did a damn fine job of dodging today’s reports in favor of…more honest practices.”

“By ‘more honest practices’,” Sanson motioned, “do you mean ogling at the women while you left me to the rest of the report on the Nourval incident?” 

“In my defense,” shrugged Guydelot, “I was certain Vorsie was gonna help you with that business.”

“Are you mad?” Sanson rolled his eyes, “Commander Heuloix has countless matters to attend to as is! Although…I realize I would benefit greatly from his assistance, considering how little _you’ve_ done…” 

Guydelot feigned being taken aback, “ _Excuse_ me? This, to the man who saved your pasty little arse from certain death?”

The poor lancer’s face turned redder than a ruby tomato at the mere mention of his posterior, but whether it was from pure rage or embarrassment, Guydelot could not be sure.

“H-how _dare you!”_ Sanson squealed, catching the attention of a few yellow-clad passersby. He stopped himself before he could raise his voice any further, quietly apologizing to those in the hall he may have disturbed, eliciting a laugh or two from the corners of the halls…and from Guydelot, who was nearly pulled by the collar for that one. Luckily for him…Sanson was not so tall.

“I have told you time and time again, Guydelot,” the two continued down the hall, “I’m eternally grateful to you, but that is no excuse to shirk your duty as a member of the Order! Furthermore—aagh!”

Sanson stopped in his tracks, after almost tripping on some tiny brick left on the ground. Guydelot looked in amusement on his companion, eyeing the floor to discover the very same little brick.

“What in the seven hells--?!” Sanson gasped, regaining his composure, “Who drops a brick in the barracks?”

The two men eyed the tiny thing, but it was Guydelot who mustered the courage to bend down and touch the brick—which, in fact, was not even a brick at all.

“It’s…a sketchbook?” Guydelot picked the little book up, eyeing its front and back covers, “Any idea whose it might be?”

“I’m aware of recruits who sketch in their spare time…yet none would carry a sketchbook so tiny, I’m afraid,” Sanson furrowed his brow as the two moved over to the edge of the hall, curiously eyeing their find, “I…suppose we should open it.”

Guydelot opened the book’s cover, checking again for any sign of a name and perusing its pages.

“Well, let’s hope this artist is some g—Well, well _…_ what do we have _here?_ ” the bard’s mouth froze into an o-shape, his awe-struck expression growing with each flip of the page, “Sanson, take a gander at this.”

He handed over the book to his shorter companion, who turned back to the first page and slowly began to turn…

“I’m sure it can’t be too terrib— _oh, gods be good_ …” Sanson’s eyes widened and slammed the book shut the moment he gazed upon the first few pages. It was…well, in all honesty, Sanson had to admit they were decently drawn, every page of what he’d seen. The problem, however…was the _content_ of the sketches themselves.

“Was that…was that who I think that was?” Sanson’s voice cracked, his mouth running dry.

“The Elder Seedseer and the Admiral in various romantic situations and stages of undress, you me—mmph?!” Guydelot answered coolly before Sanson covered his mouth in a panic.

“Not. Another. Word!” hissed Sanson, “This is…this is _blasphemous_! Who would dare—?!”

“A matter of taste, I see,” shrugged the bard, taking the book back before his companion passed out from shock, “I, for one, would love to acquire the same level of inspiration as our artist friend here. Ah, the songs we could write!”

“You _mustn’t!_ What kind of foul rumors do you want to spread, Guydelot?! We’re investigating this, at _once!”_ Sanson vehemently shook his head, dragging Guydelot by the hand as they made their way back to their office before the bard could even protest. The other soldiers who crossed their path looked on their urgency in amusement, but went about their business all the same, fortunately.

Sanson slammed shut the door to his and Guydelot’s assigned barrack, throwing down what he referred to as ‘the evidence’ on the table and dragging up a second chair for himself.

“I don’t see why you’re making such a commotion of this,” shrugged Guydelot, “I say we consider ourselves fortunate and do ourselves some art appreciation.”

“I say you’re an awful human being,” Sanson squinted his eyes and began to mutter to himself, “Should we report this? Is that even wise without any proof that the artist was even a member of our ranks at all?”

Before Sanson had even noticed, Guydelot was at it again, nodding in approval every page or so.

“P-put that _down!”_ Sanson nearly shouted, “It’s _evidence!”_

“If you’re going to get flustered over a simple sketchbook, I can scarcely imagine what your first encounter with a woman would be like.”

Sanson stopped in his tracks, flustered, “I don’t—That’s not relevant!”

“Then you’ll look at the sketchbook,” Guydelot proceeded to hand it back over, “Evidence requires…a thorough investigation, don’t you think?”

“I…I suppose,” shuddered the Hyur, reluctantly taking the book from Guydelot’s hand, “…Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll…investigate the book.”

“And who knows,” Guydelot smirked, “A good song always starts with inspiration…so what say we play a little game? Get the best out of our investigation, so to speak.”

“…What are you scheming, Guydelot?”

“A simple game, really,” shrugged the Elezen, “We rate each drawing on a scale of one to ten. If we’re of the same mind regarding a sketch or picture, we put it on our list, and once we’ve perused the whole book, we make it into a song that’ll make the Elder Seedseer more famous than she already is!”

“That’s an awful idea, and I would prefer to _keep_ my position as Captain, thank you very much. We’ve just gained this bard unit, and I do not plan to get it disbanded by the Order over…immature ditties.”

“Then we’ll keep the song to ourselves, for another rainy day. Would you prefer that?” Guydelot asked again.

“I would prefer neither,” Sanson crossed his arms, “But if it will whet your appetite for the inappropriate, then it seems like we’ve no choice.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Guydelot grinned, “Now, put the book flat on the table.”

Sanson did as he was told, opening to the first page, instinctively averting his eyes for the initial few seconds. Guydelot, however, leaned in to see the colored sketch, this one a simple drawing of the Elder Seedseer’s profile down to her bare shoulders, surrounded by lilies…

“Well, ah…” Sanson stuttered, “I do like the colors on this one. And the lilies are a nice touch, very…patriotic? Is that what you’d call this? They’ve captured the Elder Seedseer’s image decently enough. I…I would give it…a seven out of ten, I’d wager. Perhaps more if she were clothed.”

Guydelot put his hand to his chin in contemplation, “I’ve a mind to agree with you on the colors and the lilies, but she’ll only get a four from me. Next page.”

Before Sanson could object, Guydelot had turned the page expectantly, revealing another sketch of the Elder Seedseer, this time only in black and white. She lay with her dress nearly open, in the arms of the Admiral, to which Sanson couldn’t be more appalled. Who in their right mind would conceive such a terrible, sacrilegious idea? If the artist had been an Adder, thought Sanson, they ought to be ashamed.

“Zero out of ten!” Sanson covered his eyes, “This is too much…”

“And a zero out of ten for me,” nodded Guydelot, “But only because this is too little.”

“Too _little?”_ Sanson repeated, “What is too _little_ about an image of the Admiral of Limsa Lominsa about to _deflower_ the Elder Seedseer?!”

“I just don’t understand how someone could draw something of this magnitude and fail to draw in a good pair of teats or something,” Guydelot sighed, motioning to the picture, “Certainly, I do appreciate the clever methods of censorship our anonymous artisan utilizes, but—”

Sanson had to slap himself in the face to make sure this was a conversation he was actually having with Guydelot, of all people.

“Get a hold of yourself, man,” Guydelot’s expression hardened in a sort of…sarcastic way that he does, “We’ve only just begun.”

“We’re going straight to the Seventh Hell for this, I just want you to know,” the lancer threw his face in the palms of his hands.

“I would have it no other way!” Guydelot smiled as he turned the page, “Nothing would be finer than a romp with my good companion in the Seventh Hell! I’m sure its residents will have plenty of stories to tell, plenty of ballads to be had—Eh. Another zero out of ten.”

Sanson couldn’t help but peek out of the safety of his hands to see sketch number three, which was actually quite tame, compared to its predecessor. It was, of course, the two leaders from before, but they were wearing color-accurate wedding dresses, hand in hand, surrounded by beautiful flowers and moogles and well-wishers.

“Truly?” Sanson raised an eyebrow, “I’d give this one an eight, at least.”

“It displays similar…issues as the works before it,” Guydelot nodded to himself, “Stylistically, stunning, no doubt. Emotional response? Ain’t any from me.”

The pattern continued as such, and with each page, each new, censored-yet-risqué drawing or sketch, Sanson’s stomach churned, just a little bit. Despite his distaste for the matter, however, he did try to rate them fairly…even if the creator of these works ought to receive some consequence for them…Guydelot, however, seemed to give half-hearted reviews. There were a few that he did give his nod of approval to, of course, but even those were zero out of ten, for “lacking passion” or what have you. And by passion, Sanson was almost certain his companion meant, in his words, ‘a good pair of teats’.

They had neared the end of the book without coming to an agreement on any one of the pictures, despite arguments from Sanson here or there. It was almost frustrating. He was _sure_ Guydelot would have at least agreed on what he referred to as “the stars and silks one”. Even Sanson was impressed by that.

More importantly, there was still no clues written or drawn as to who scrawled these all up. There were hand-written segments to compliment the pictures from time to time, but Sanson did not recognize who the tiny letters belonged to, or rather, hadn’t even seen them before.

“Last two pages,” Guydelot yawned, “This is all quite…uninspiring, to be frank. Everything, just—covered! All of it!”

Sanson, however, was rather fed up with this. He couldn’t quite point out why, but…something at the bottom of his stomach roiled within him.

“I’ve had enough of this, Guydelot,” Sanson grimaced, standing up out of his chair, “I care little if I’ve been with a woman or not, what do teats have to do with…anything? I’ve barely been able to stomach this, and you just sit here, blaming sketches and drawings of women who could and _would_ kill the both of us if they found out we were investigating any of this!”

Guydelot looked up at his companion, unamused, “Inexperienced as ever, I see.”

“Me?” Sanson grew cross with the other man, “I think the inexperienced one is you, my friend! I believe you’re just making excuses! Putting on an act, as it were!”

“Excuses? …An act?” the Elezen guffawed, “Of what kind?”

“The art isn’t the problem!” Sanson slammed his hand onto the open book, “These sketches may not be to my liking, but they are filled with a passion that _you_ lack!”

“…What are you implying?” Guydelot squinted his eyes, getting up from his chair and looking Sanson square in the face.

“If something that was once inspiring to you—be it scantily-clad women or what have you—fails to light a fire in your heart, then perhaps the problem instead lies within you! You haven’t been writing since what happened with Nourval. You keep talking of trying to find inspiration, but I’ve seen those empty pages from your songbooks.”

“This has nothing to do with—”

“It has _everything_ to do with it, Guydelot! You’ve simply burned out!” Sanson continued to argue, unmoving despite the bard’s cold glare, “Whether we live our lives as bards or as artists, we all need time to rest and recover. And you’ve yet to do that! No matter what it is—women, art, songs—they don’t inspire you anymore because you’re tired and afraid.”

The other man never answered back. He simply sat back down in his chair, feeling the weight of Sanson’s words, one by one. Not realizing how much the words had struck a chord within his partner, Sanson followed, relaxing his posture and keeping his eyes on Guydelot.

“…That’s why you didn’t want to work on the reports,” Sanson realized aloud, his tone calmer, “Did you not want to remember?”

“Why this, all of sudden?” Guydelot let out an exasperated laugh, “Why do I even ask? You’ve always been prone to ruin things.”

“Think what you like,” Sanson said, “I ask because I care about you. You saved my life, Guydelot. Even if you do shirk your duties sometimes…If your muse has left you, it’s all right to simply wait for her to come back. You needn’t push yourself.”

“And what makes you think you can solve all my swivin’ problems?” Guydelot looked back down at the table, “A bard’s nothing without his song.”

“I can’t pretend I can figure everything out about you, Guydelot. But I’ll be damned if I don’t try to help you in return for everything you’ve done. You just…you have to tell me when you feel like this. We’re partners. And partners don’t abandon each other.”

Guydelot could only respond with a sigh at first, yet Sanson waited for him to say what he had to say. It was his turn to listen.

“You’re a bleedin’ idiot, you know that?” the Elezen shook his head, “Do what you like, if you think you’ve got a salve for this. I won’t stop you.”

“I know,” smiled Sanson, “But that’s the answer I was looking for.”

Guydelot threw up his hands in defeat, “If you say so…now can we finish with the gods damned book and be done with this, or are you gonna regale me with more sentimental shite?”

“Both are likely,” the lancer took a sigh of relief, “I…apologize for that outburst. I think this rain’s getting to me.”

“…Sanson.”

“What?”

“Thank you.”

“O-oh,” Sanson blinked, blood rushing to his face, “I didn’t expect that.”

“What, you think I’m cold enough not to thank my trusted companion?”

“Should I answer that honestly?”

“I don’t give a rat’s arse,” Guydelot gave a hearty laugh, “But I’m countin’ on you.”

“I’ll be counting on you, too,” renewed with vigor, Sanson nodded, his gaze turned towards the last page, “Shall we?”

“We shall,” Guydelot said, doing the honors himself. When he did turn the page, however…

“Oh,” Sanson eyed the final two pages curiously, “It’s…it’s neither of them.”

Before their eyes lay two fully-sketched pages of another woman—a short-haired Highlander garbed in a Serpent Elite’s Jerkin, the determination in her eyes contagious in each and every sketch. In some, her expressions were gentle and soft. In others, she was drawn fighting with axe or spear in hand, ready for the kill.

“Ten out of ten,” clapped Guydelot, “Now _this_ is a woman.”

“That’s a surprise, considering she’s no teats at the ready,” Sanson rolled his eyes…except, when his gaze fell back on the picture…there was something oddly familiar about this woman, and a twinge of fear began to grow within him.

Before he could investigate any further, Guydelot snatched the book away from the table, intrigued.

“What’s this? There’s some text at the bottom of the page…‘My…Sidekick’?”

Sanson’s fear suddenly turned to terror in an instant.

“Guydelot…I know who drew this,” gulped the Hyur, pilfering it from his partner’s hands and nearly dashing out the door, “We need to put it back where we found it. _Now.”_

Barely able to process the speed at which Sanson rushed out the door, Guydelot couldn’t help but sigh to himself, his partner muttering about putting the book back ‘before the little witch kills us all’…

“My muse, you say…” the bard groaned, alone in the empty barrack, “Unfortunately, I think he’s already found me.”

* * *

…Somewhere in the Twelveswood, a dark-skinned Lalafellin lass in Twin Adder uniform was desperately searching through her pack.

“Sidekick,” she turned to the Highlander woman behind her, “Have you seen my little sketchbook? The, um…the secret one?”


End file.
